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Файл:The Best Sherlock Holmes Short Stories
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Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 251
“Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late, but the trains were awkward.
You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession.”
“Exactly.”
“I have your letter here. You said, ‘I desire to possess a copy of
Devine’s Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds for the one
which is in your possession.’ Is that right?”
“Certainly.”
“I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not imagine
how you knew that I owned such a thing.”
“Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is
very simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had sold
you their last copy, and he gave me your address.”
“Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?”
“No, he did not.”
“Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only gave
fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to know that before
I take ten pounds from you.
“I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I have
named that price, so I intend to stick to it.”
“Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust
up with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!” He opened his bag, and
at last we saw placed upon our table a complete specimen of that bust
which we had already seen more than once in fragments.
Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note
upon the table.
“You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence of
these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every possible right
that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a methodical man, you see,
and you never know what turn events might take afterwards. Thank
you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your money, and I wish you a very good
evening.”
When our visitor had disappeared, Sherlock Holmes’s movements
were such as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean white
cloth from a drawer and laying it over the table. Then he placed his
newly acquired bust in the centre of the cloth. Finally, he picked up his
hunting-crop and struck Napoleon a sharp blow on the top of the head.
The figure broke into fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over the
shattered remains. Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph he held up
one splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum in a
pudding.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, “let me introduce you to the famous black
pearl of the Borgias.”
Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a
spontaneous impulse, we both broke at clapping, as at the well-wrought
crisis of a play. A flush of color sprang to Holmes’s pale cheeks, and he
252 The Adventure of the Six Napoleons
bowed to us like the master dramatist who receives the homage of his
audience. It was at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be a
reasoning machine, and betrayed his human love for admiration and
applause. The same singularly proud and reserved nature which turned
away with disdain from popular notoriety was capable of being moved
to its depths by spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.
“Yes, gentlemen,” said he, “it is the most famous pearl now
existing in the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a connected
chain of inductive reasoning, to trace it from the Prince of Colonna’s
bedroom at the Dacre Hotel, where it was lost, to the interior of this, the
last of the six busts of Napoleon which were manufactured by Gelder &
Co., of Stepney. You will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by
the disappearance of this valuable jewel and the vain efforts of the
London police to recover it. I was myself consulted upon the case, but I
was unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion fell upon the maid of
the Princess, who was an Italian, and it was proved that she had a
brother in London, but we failed to trace any connection between them.
The maid’s name was Lucretia Venucci, and there is no doubt in my
mind that this Pietro who was murdered two nights ago was the
brother. I have been looking up the dates in the old files of the paper,
and I find that the disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days
before the arrest of Beppo, for some crime of violence—an event which
took place in the factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when
these busts were being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of
events, though you see them, of course, in the inverse order to the way
in which they presented themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in his
possession. He may have stolen it from Pietro, he may have been
Pietro’s confederate, he may have been the go-between of Pietro and
his sister. It is of no consequence to us which is the correct solution.
“The main fact is that he had the pearl, and at that moment, when it
was on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made for the
factory in which he worked, and he knew that he had only a few
minutes in which to conceal this enormously valuable prize, which
would otherwise be found on him when he was searched. Six plaster
casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage. One of them was still
soft. In an instant Beppo, a skilful workman, made a small hole in the
wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and with a few touches covered over
the aperture once more. It was an admirable hiding-place. No one could
possibly find it. But Beppo was condemned to a year’s imprisonment,
and in the meanwhile his six busts were scattered over London. He
could not tell which contained his treasure. Only by breaking them
could he see. Even shaking would tell him nothing, for as the plaster
was wet it was probable that the pearl would adhere to it—as, in fact, it
has done. Beppo did not despair, and he conducted his search with
considerable ingenuity and perseverance. Through a cousin who works
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 253
with Gelder, he found out the retail firms who had bought the busts. He
managed to find employment with Morse Hudson, and in that way
tracked down three of them. The pearl was not there. Then, with the
help of some Italian employee, he succeeded in finding out where the
other three busts had gone. The first was at Harker’s. There he was
dogged by his confederate, who held Beppo responsible for the loss of
the pearl, and he stabbed him in the scuffle which followed.”
“If he was his confederate, why should he carry his photograph?” I
asked.
“As a means of tracing him, if he wished to inquire about him from
any third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after the murder I
calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather than delay his
movements. He would fear that the police would read his secret, and so
he hastened on before they should get ahead of him. Of course, I could
not say that he had not found the pearl in Harker’s bust. I had not even
concluded for certain that it was the pearl, but it was evident to me that
he was looking for something, since he carried the bust past the other
houses in order to break it in the garden which had a lamp overlooking
it. Since Harker’s bust was one in three, the chances were exactly as I
told you—two to one against the pearl being inside it. There remained
two busts, and it was obvious that he would go for the London one first.
I warned the inmates of the house, so as to avoid a second tragedy, and
we went down, with the happiest results. By that time, of course, I
knew for certain that it was the Borgia pearl that we were after. The
name of the murdered man linked the one event with the other. There
only remained a single bust—the Reading one—and the pearl must be
there. I bought it in your presence from the owner—and there it lies.”
We sat in silence for a moment.
“Well,” said Lestrade, “I’ve seen you handle a good many cases,
Mr. Holmes, but I don’t know that I ever knew a more workmanlike
one than that. We’re not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we
are very proud of you, and if you come down tomorrow, there’s not a
man, from the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn’t
be glad to shake you by the hand.”
“Thank you!” said Holmes. “Thank you!” and as he turned away, it
seemed to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human
emotions than I had ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold and
practical thinker once more. “Put the pearl in the safe, Watson,” said
he, “and get out the papers of the Conk-Singleton forgery case. Goodbye, Lestrade. If any little problem comes your way, I shall be happy, if
I can, to give you a hint or two as to its solution.”
254 The Adventure of the Second Stain
The Adventure of the Second Stain
I had intended “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange” to be the last
of those exploits of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which I should
ever communicate to the public. This resolution of mine was not due to
any lack of material, since I have notes of many hundreds of cases to
which I have never alluded, nor was it caused by any waning interest
on the part of my readers in the singular personality and unique
methods of this remarkable man. The real reason lay in the reluctance
which Mr. Holmes has shown to the continued publication of his
experiences. So long as he was in actual professional practice the
records of his successes were of some practical value to him, but since
he has definitely retired from London and betaken himself to study and
bee-farming on the Sussex Downs, notoriety has become hateful to
him, and he has peremptorily requested that his wishes in this matter
should be strictly observed. It was only upon my representing to him
that I had given a promise that “The Adventure of the Second Stain”
should be published when the times were ripe, and pointing out to him
that it is only appropriate that this long series of episodes should
culminate in the most important international case which he has ever
been called upon to handle, that I at last succeeded in obtaining his
consent that a carefully guarded account of the incident should at last
be laid before the public. If in telling the story I seem to be somewhat
vague in certain details, the public will readily understand that there is
an excellent reason for my reticence.
It was, then, in a year, and even in a decade, that shall be nameless,
that upon one Tuesday morning in autumn we found two visitors of
European fame within the walls of our humble room in Baker Street.
The one, austere, high-nosed, eagle-eyed, and dominant, was none
other than the illustrious Lord Bellinger, twice Premier of Britain. The
other, dark, clear-cut, and elegant, hardly yet of middle age, and
endowed with every beauty of body and of mind, was the Right
Honorable Trelawney Hope, Secretary for European Affairs, and the
most rising statesman in the country. They sat side by side upon our
paper-littered settee, and it was easy to see from their worn and anxious
faces that it was business of the most pressing importance which had
brought them. The Premier’s thin, blue-veined hands were clasped
tightly over the ivory head of his umbrella, and his gaunt, ascetic face
looked gloomily from Holmes to me. The European Secretary pulled
nervously at his moustache and fidgeted with the seals of his watchchain.
“When I discovered my loss, Mr. Holmes, which was at eight
o’clock this morning, I at once informed the Prime Minister. It was at
his suggestion that we have both come to you.”
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 255
“Have you informed the police?”
“No, sir,” said the Prime Minister, with the quick, decisive manner
for which he was famous. “We have not done so, nor is it possible that
we should do so. To inform the police must, in the long run, mean to
inform the public. This is what we particularly desire to avoid.”
“And why, sir?”
“Because the document in question is of such immense importance
that its publication might very easily—I might almost say probably—
lead to European complications of the utmost moment. It is not too
much to say that peace or war may hang upon the issue. Unless its
recovery can be attended with the utmost secrecy, then it may as well
not be recovered at all, for all that is aimed at by those who have taken
it is that its contents should be generally known.”
“I understand. Now, Mr. Trelawney Hope, I should be much
obliged if you would tell me exactly the circumstances under which this
document disappeared.”
“That can be done in a very few words, Mr. Holmes. The letter—
for it was a letter from a foreign potentate—was received six days ago.
It was of such importance that I have never left it in my safe, but have
taken it across each evening to my house in Whitehall Terrace, and kept
it in my bedroom in a locked dispatch-box. It was there last night. Of
that I am certain. I actually opened the box while I was dressing for
dinner and saw the document inside. This morning it was gone. The
dispatch-box had stood beside the glass upon my dressing-table all
night. I am a light sleeper, and so is my wife. We are both prepared to
swear that no one could have entered the room during the night. And
yet I repeat that the paper is gone.”
“What time did you dine?”
“Half-past seven.”
“How long was it before you went to bed?”
“My wife had gone to the theatre. I waited up for her. It was halfpast eleven before we went to our room.”
“Then for four hours the dispatch-box had lain unguarded?”
“No one is ever permitted to enter that room save the house-maid
in the morning, and my valet, or my wife’s maid, during the rest of the
day. They are both trusty servants who have been with us for some
time. Besides, neither of them could possibly have known that there
was anything more valuable than the ordinary departmental papers in
my dispatch-box.”
“Who did know of the existence of that letter?”
“No one in the house.”
“Surely your wife knew?”
“No, sir. I had said nothing to my wife until I missed the paper this
morning.”
The Premier nodded approvingly.
256 The Adventure of the Second Stain
“I have long known, sir, how high is your sense of public duty,”
said he. “I am convinced that in the case of a secret of this importance
it would rise superior to the most intimate domestic ties.”
The European Secretary bowed.
“You do me no more than justice, sir. Until this morning I have
never breathed one word to my wife upon this matter.”
“Could she have guessed?”
“No, Mr. Holmes, she could not have guessed—nor could anyone
have guessed.”
“Have you lost any documents before?”
“No, sir.”
“Who is there in England who did know of the existence of this
letter?”
“Each member of the Cabinet was informed of it yesterday, but the
pledge of secrecy which attends every Cabinet meeting was increased
by the solemn warning which was given by the Prime Minister. Good
heavens, to think that within a few hours I should myself have lost it!”
His handsome face was distorted with a spasm of despair, and his hands
tore at his hair. For a moment we caught a glimpse of the natural man,
impulsive, ardent, keenly sensitive. The next the aristocratic mask was
replaced, and the gentle voice had returned. “Besides the members of
the Cabinet there are two, or possibly three, departmental officials who
know of the letter. No one else in England, Mr. Holmes, I assure you.”
“But abroad?”
“I believe that no one abroad has seen it save the man who wrote
it. I am well convinced that his Ministers—that the usual official
channels have not been employed.”
Holmes considered for some little time.
“Now, sir, I must ask you more particularly what this document is,
and why its disappearance should have such momentous
consequences?”
The two statesmen exchanged a quick glance and the Premier’s
shaggy eyebrows gathered in a frown.
“Mr. Holmes, the envelope is a long, thin one of pale blue color.
There is a seal of red wax stamped with a crouching lion. It is
addressed in large, bold handwriting to——”
“I fear, sir,” said Holmes, “that, interesting and indeed essential as
these details are, my inquiries must go more to the root of things. What
was the letter?”
“That is a State secret of the utmost importance, and I fear that I
cannot tell you, nor do I see that it is necessary. If by the aid of the
powers which you are said to possess you can find such an envelope as
I describe with its enclosure, you will have deserved well of your
country, and earned any reward which it lies in our power to bestow.”
Sherlock Holmes rose with a smile.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 257
“You are two of the most busy men in the country,” said he, “and
in my own small way I have also a good many calls upon me. I regret
exceedingly that I cannot help you in this matter, and any continuation
of this interview would be a waste of time.”
The Premier sprang to his feet with that quick, fierce gleam of his
deep-set eyes before which a Cabinet has cowered. “I am not
accustomed, sir,” he began, but mastered his anger and resumed his
seat. For a minute or more we all sat in silence. Then the old statesman
shrugged his shoulders.
“We must accept your terms, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right,
and it is unreasonable for us to expect you to act unless we give you our
entire confidence.”
“I agree with you,” said the younger statesman.
“Then I will tell you, relying entirely upon your honour and that of
your colleague, Dr. Watson. I may appeal to your patriotism also, for I
could not imagine a greater misfortune for the country than that this
affair should come out.”
“You may safely trust us.”
“The letter, then, is from a certain foreign potentate who has been
ruffled by some recent Colonial developments of this country. It has
been written hurriedly and upon his own responsibility entirely.
Inquiries have shown that his Ministers know nothing of the matter. At
the same time it is couched in so unfortunate a manner, and certain
phrases in it are of so provocative a character, that its publication would
undoubtedly lead to a most dangerous state of feeling in this country.
There would be such a ferment, sir, that I do not hesitate to say that
within a week of the publication of that letter this country would be
involved in a great war.”
Holmes wrote a name upon a slip of paper and handed it to the
Premier.
“Exactly. It was he. And it is this letter—this letter which may well
mean the expenditure of a thousand millions and the lives of a hundred
thousand men—which has become lost in this unaccountable fashion.”
“Have you informed the sender?”
“Yes, sir, a cipher telegram has been dispatched.”
“Perhaps he desires the publication of the letter.”
“No, sir, we have strong reason to believe that he already
understands that he has acted in an indiscreet and hot-headed manner. It
would be a greater blow to him and to his country than to us if this
letter were to come out.”
“If this is so, whose interest is it that, the letter should come out?
Why should anyone desire to steal it or to publish it?”
“There, Mr. Holmes, you take me into regions of high international
politics. But if you consider the European situation you will have no
difficulty in perceiving the motive. The whole of Europe is an armed
258 The Adventure of the Second Stain
camp. There is a double league which makes a fair balance of military
power. Great Britain holds the scales. If Britain were driven into war
with one confederacy, it would assure the supremacy of the other
confederacy, whether they joined in the war or not. Do you follow?”
“Very clearly. It is then the interest of the enemies of this potentate
to secure and publish this letter, so as to make a breach between his
country and ours?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And to whom would this document be sent if it fell into the hands
of an enemy?”
“To any of the great Chancelleries of Europe. It is probably
speeding on its way thither at the present instant as fast as steam can
take it.”
Mr. Trelawney Hope dropped his head on his chest and groaned
aloud. The Premier placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder.
“It is your misfortune, my dear fellow. No one can blame you.
There is no precaution which you have neglected. Now, Mr. Holmes,
you are in full possession of the facts. What course do you
recommend?”
Holmes shook his head mournfully.
“You think, sir, that unless this document is recovered there will be
war?”
“I think it is very probable.”
“Then, sir, prepare for war.”
“That is a hard saying, Mr. Holmes.”
“Consider the facts, sir. It is inconceivable that it was taken after
eleven-thirty at night, since I understand that Mr. Hope and his wife
were both in the room from that hour until the loss was found out. It
was taken, then, yesterday evening between seven-thirty and eleventhirty, probably near the earlier hour, since whoever took it evidently
knew that it was there and would naturally secure it as early as
possible. Now, sir, if a document of this importance were taken at that
hour, where can it be now? No one has any reason to retain it. It has
been passed rapidly on to those who need it. What chance have we now
to overtake or even to trace it? It is beyond our reach.”
The Prime Minister rose from the settee.
“What you say is perfectly logical, Mr. Holmes. I feel that the
matter is indeed out of our hands.”
“Let us presume, for argument’s sake, that the document was taken
by the maid or by the valet——”
“They are both old and tried servants.”
“I understand you to say that your room is on the second floor, that
there is no entrance from without, and that from within no one could go
up unobserved. It must, then, be somebody in the house who has taken
it. To whom would the thief take it? To one of several international
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 259
spies and secret agents, whose names are tolerably familiar to me.
There are three who may be said to be the heads of their profession. I
will begin my research by going round and finding if each of them is at
his post. If one is missing—especially if he has disappeared since last
night—we will have some indication as to where the document has
gone.”
“Why should he be missing?” asked the European Secretary. “He
would take the letter to an Embassy in London, as likely as not.”
“I fancy not. These agents work independently, and their relations
with the Embassies are often strained.”
The Prime Minister nodded his acquiescence.
“I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes. He would take so valuable a
prize to headquarters with his own hands. I think that your course of
action is an excellent one. Meanwhile, Hope, we cannot neglect all our
other duties on account of this one misfortune. Should there be any
fresh developments during the day we shall communicate with you, and
you will no doubt let us know the results of your own inquiries.”
The two statesmen bowed and walked gravely from the room.
When our illustrious visitors had departed Holmes lit his pipe in
silence and sat for some time lost in the deepest thought. I had opened
the morning paper and was immersed in a sensational crime which had
occurred in London the night before, when my friend gave an
exclamation, sprang to his feet, and laid his pipe down upon the
mantelpiece.
“Yes,” said he, “there is no better way of approaching it. The
situation is desperate, but not hopeless. Even now, if we could be sure
which of them has taken it, it is just possible that it has not yet passed
out of his hands. After all, it is a question of money with these fellows,
and I have the British treasury behind me. If it’s on the market I’ll buy
it—if it means another penny on the income-tax. It is conceivable that
the fellow might hold it back to see what bids come from this side
before he tries his luck on the other. There are only those three capable
of playing so bold a game—there are Oberstein, La Rothiere, and
Eduardo Lucas. I will see each of them.”
I glanced at my morning paper.
“Is that Eduardo Lucas of Godolphin Street?”
“Yes.”
“You will not see him.”
“Why not?”
“He was murdered in his house last night.”
My friend has so often astonished me in the course of our
adventures that it was with a sense of exultation that I realized how
completely I had astonished him. He stared in amazement, and then
snatched the paper from my hands. This was the paragraph which I had
been engaged in reading when he rose from his chair.
260 The Adventure of the Second Stain
MURDER IN WESTMINSTER
A crime of mysterious character was committed last night at 16
Godolphin Street, one of the old-fashioned and secluded rows of
eighteenth century houses which lie between the river and the Abbey,
almost in the shadow of the great Tower of the Houses of Parliament.
This small but select mansion has been inhabited for some years by Mr.
Eduardo Lucas, well known in society circles both on account of his
charming personality and because he has the well-deserved reputation
of being one of the best amateur tenors in the country. Mr. Lucas is an
unmarried man, thirty-four years of age, and his establishment consists
of Mrs. Pringle, an elderly housekeeper, and of Mitton, his valet. The
former retires early and sleeps at the top of the house. The valet was out
for the evening, visiting a friend at Hammersmith. From ten o’clock
onward Mr. Lucas had the house to himself. What occurred during that
time has not yet transpired, but at a quarter to twelve Police-constable
Barrett, passing along Godolphin Street observed that the door of No.
16 was ajar. He knocked, but received no answer. Perceiving a light in
the front room, he advanced into the passage and again knocked, but
without reply. He then pushed open the door and entered. The room
was in a state of wild disorder, the furniture being all swept to one side,
and one chair lying on its back in the centre. Beside this chair, and still
grasping one of its legs, lay the unfortunate tenant of the house. He had
been stabbed to the heart and must have died instantly. The knife with
which the crime had been committed was a curved Indian dagger,
plucked down from a trophy of Oriental arms which adorned one of the
walls. Robbery does not appear to have been the motive of the crime,
for there had been no attempt to remove the valuable contents of the
room. Mr. Eduardo Lucas was so well known and popular that his
violent and mysterious fate will arouse painful interest and intense
sympathy in a widespread circle of friends.
“Well, Watson, what do you make of this?” asked Holmes, after a
long pause.
“It is an amazing coincidence.”
“A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom we had named
as possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violent death during the
very hours when we know that that drama was being enacted. The odds
are enormous against its being coincidence. No figures could express
them. No, my dear Watson, the two events are connected—must be
connected. It is for us to find the connection.”
“But now the official police must know all.”
“Not at all. They know all they see at Godolphin Street. They
know—and shall know—nothing of Whitehall Terrace. Only we know
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